


Per Audacia Ad Astra - Kinktober 2019

by roughmagic



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Body Swap, Cayde's a bottom and I am not taking questions at this time, Consentacles, Cuckolding, Done for this year! See y'all 2020, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Fantasizing, Flogging, Gags, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Kinktober 2019, Light Dom/sub, Masochism, Masturbation, Mild Language, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Sex Toys, Sharing a Body, Size Difference, Space Sybian, Stomach Bulge (from the big dick), Telepathy, Tentacles, Threesome, Vibrators, Voice Kink, Voyeurism, Wax Play, Worm Imagery, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 10:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/pseuds/roughmagic
Summary: Just what it says on the tin! Mostly PWP based on Kinktober 2019 prompts. Ratings and tags will be updated consistently, definitely open to requests as well!Reader/Various, plus other ships!





	1. WAXPLAY - Reader/Cayde

You had pictured helping Cayde clean out his junk room as a fun job, getting to explore treasures and trinkets from all his adventures, reminiscing and hearing stories. Finding objects of interest, sorting through the chaff, ending up with a clean room shelved and decorated with a little museum of his history. 

The truth is that it’s almost entirely junk, and the room is so cramped he has to drag boxes out of it to sort through them in the hall, leaving you trapped in a nest of garbage. It’s hard to know what to save and what to throw out, and Cayde’s already corrected you on a few things you thought were junk. You suspect they are just junk and he’s bad at this. 

A small linen bag rolls out of a rusted coffee can, and you pick the drawstring knot apart, revealing three colorless candles, one broken and exposing the wick. You lift out a whole candle and sniff, although there’s no hint of beeswax or other pretty scents. 

Right on cue, Cayde stands up and peeks in, face lighting up in what you’ve learned to detect as surprise, or embarrassment. “Oh! You found the, well, it was a joke gift, don’t worry about it.”

“How’s a candle a joke gift?”

“Well, it’s a… special candle.”

Your eyes narrow, and you point the candle at him. “For butt stuff.”

“Not for butt stuff! What have  _ you _ been using candles for?” He shoves a pile of books out of the way with his boot, hunkering down beside you. “It’s kind of a fun, sexy maintenance thing. The heat catalyzes the wax into an Exo-friendly restorative, instead of just hardening up again.”

“Sexy,” you repeat, thinking. 

“I mean,” Cayde’s voice lowers into the Seductive Range. “If you’re into that.” 

You shove what looks like a few crates of defunct ammo synths and half a rusted bicycle off the old fainting couch and Cayde whines about how rough you are with his stuff, and continues to whine about how rough you are with him as you push and kiss him down onto it, laughing. 

The candle bag’s drawstring goes around his wrists and the complaints escalate, but he knows the game: it’s more impressive if he doesn’t snap the string and instead goes along. He pipes down and finally starts making agreeable noises as you undo his clothes-- nothing too fancy for a day of cleaning in his quarters, none of the complex fasteners for his armor. You offer his shirt to hold up with his mouth, although it doesn’t stop him from talking, or sighing when you undo his trousers, expose a little more of his bare chassis. 

You light the candle with a quick and extraneous use of your Light, and Cayde suddenly goes quiet. 

Holding the candle parallel to his body, you can see the bundles of microlaminate muscles jump at every drop of wax from sensory input. Cayde lets out a sigh, stretching out as much as he can and trying to get used to the feeling. Whether a deliberate function of the wax or just the reflex of a living being, he still twitches, chuckling nervously.

You tilt the candle back, rotating it in your fingers to keep the melting wax moving. “Too hot?”

“No, no, just… weird.” Cayde’s eyes, pretty and bright, give him away, flicking from his stomach, to the candle, to you and back again in a circuit. “You ever done this before?”

“You’re making me want to try it.”

“Well, let me up--” 

“Another time.” He can smell an opening to weasel his way out of being vulnerable like this, so you shut him up by tipping the candle again and pattering liquid wax onto him again. 

You set your face to look like you’re ignoring his breathing, his squirming, the private show of him at your mercy, although its impossible to ignore. Already you have dreams of tearing his clothes off and riding him, cramped and sticky on the couch, but the candle hasn’t burned down far enough for that. He’ll hate waiting as much as you. 

The wax beads and stays on the woven surface of his skin between the armor plates, rolling slowly. The noises Cayde makes and the little wordless complaints tell you that it must be most distracting as the hot, slow trickles.

Impulsively, you press your hand into the cooling mess on his stomach and Cayde groans, hips rolling as you massage the wax into him, now with the consistency of an oil or lube. It leaves the armor weave almost soft, not exactly slippery but moisturized, warmer than even his usual temperature. 

“Alright, alright, I got the idea,” He huffs, trying to sit up more on the couch. “This just feels like you’re teasing me.”

“I haven’t even gotten to your dick yet.”

“I-- you’re gonna--?”

You make eye contact with him as your hand slips below the undone closings of his trousers, struggling not to smile as you find his sheathed bulge, slit already straining and wet with lubricant. “Unless you don’t want me to?” 

“No,” Cayde breathes, laminate muscles tightening as you tease the soft silicate, beginning to part it. “No, I do, I very much do--” He cuts himself off as you part him fully and palm his cock as it slides free, lubricated and hardening further at your touch.

It takes a little finagling, but you keep the candle dripping on his midsection as you suck and lick the extra lubricant off, Cayde panting and encouraging you with helpless, soft noises. The soft, delicate material of his cock is perfect against your tongue, stiff enough to wobble upright when you finally pull your mouth free with a pop. His hips follow you instinctively and you give him a smug look. His shirt’s fallen out of his mouth, pectorals still glossy with the melted wax and sensitive, and you love seeing him open and ready like this. 

“When you look at me like that, I feel like you’re gonna… eat me, or something,” Cayde breathes hard, eyes glowing bright with focus and energy, and that makes you smile. He’s got a lot riding on him as Hunter Vanguard, and seeing him like this makes you feel better about the day to day grief he endures. 

“You’d taste good.”

“Covered in wax? Like… a cheese? I feel like we’re mixing metaphors--”

“ _ You _ started it.” You cut him off with wax dribbled over the head of his cock and Cayde lets out a little shout, whole body hitching, his breathing coming harder and faster now. 

“Oh, that-- be gentle, be--” He arches and squirms as you let the wax keep melting at its own rate, dribbling on him, on his cock, between his legs, building up in thick, liquid beads. Whether it rates as gentle or not, you don’t care. He’s got a safeword if he needs it. 

Precum and natural lubricant are mixing with the wax on his cock, and you can’t resist, finally rubbing it in as Cayde moans, throat lighting up with the sound and a flush of hot air releasing to try and cool his internal temperature. “Please, c’mon, love--”

“C’mon what?”

“I--I dunno, didn’t think that far ahead--”

You laugh and tilt your head at an angle that should keep too much wax off the both of you, setting the candle delicately between your teeth to free both hands, wriggling out of your pants. You hook a leg over his waist and Cayde urges you on hopefully, only to cuss in frustration as you sit on his lap, pressing his cock flat against his stomach. 

Hands free, you hold the candle between your palms and enjoy the sight of him from this new vantage point, lowering the candle tip to drip more wax, Cayde already begging you to move. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How," I mused. "do I get around the logistical nightmare of wax drying on/inside a body of one million moving parts."


	2. WAXPLAY - Reader/Cayde

The veil is thin in this quiet hollow of Venus, the laminated overlap of timelines worn smooth like old velvet.

Time, you know, is more complicated than the unimaginable iterations stacked atop each other, invisible onionskin, infinitesimal membranes of every variant universe. 

“All that timey-wimey stuff’s over my head,” a Hunter friend of yours had said once, waving a hand. It had launched a pedantic squabble among the present Warlocks, which you had conspicuously stayed out of. Mainly because you agreed: the logic and methodology required for navigating and sometimes outwitting time was the pursuit of a lifetime, and you weren’t interested in the required maths.

There’s something more direct, linear, and hard to quantify that you’ve discovered through meditation and wishing, not from an Ahamkhara, but under your own power. Your Ghost takes notes and readings and theorizes, but it’s enough for you that it works. So far just brushes, the linking of fingers, a promise. But tonight you’ll reach Praedyth, and hold on. As long as you can.

Your Ghost bobs in a nod and floats to stand guard outside the small alcove-- just an Ishtar campus ruin, but some enormous broad-leafed plant had turned it into a shelter, rain pattering above and raising rich, humid scents of growing life from the soil below. 

It should be quiet enough, and you’ve spread out a thick rug from the Tower, entirely too expensive to be using for this. But it’s your glimmer. You want to be comfortable, for him if not for yourself. Rich tidbits of food and fresh water are within arm’s reach with the same intent. 

Sitting upright, you shut out the sounds and sensations of the outside world. The sweet spot is somewhere between floating in the blank and a deep, meditative sink down to silence. Your spine aligns you with the ground. The blue magma churning at the planet’s core.  _ Venus _ , the old ballad sang, _Venus, planet of love._

That’s the frequency carrying you now, whether by a forgotten Guardian magic trick or the particular resonance of untold stars aligning with your here and now, to link you to his where and when. Love, to comfort, to ease, to reassure. Praedyth. The Vault as a navigational star screaming with suffering-- you put your back to it and reach. Your heart, your will. 

He appears to you more clearly this time, the inverse color of the prison universe he is trapped in, so clearly from your world and so obviously trapped alone. Praedyth is always close to dying, held in stasis or a timeliness limbo, never aging out of life when he’s earned it a hundred times over.

Your hand closes over his, into it, past threadbare scraps of outdated armor and cold, tired bones. The constellation of his exhausted body is easy to match, and he jerks out of inattention at what must feel very strange, your mind drawing over his like a bedsheet. 

“You don’t have to keep coming back,” he croaks, out of what feels increasingly like your throat. 

You know-- you don’t do anything you don’t want to. His will is still his own, but you’re stronger, superimposing into his body and sliding him into yours fully. Before it had been maybe a hand, the lower brain, a sharing of the same seat instead of a switch. 

Praedyth’s body is all angles, skin drawn over bones sharp with hunger and time. You’ve heard him think of himself as an unlovely skeleton, and maybe it’s true. His resilience and mystery drew you to him at first, and now what drives you is the defeat of suffering, the triumph of bringing him home. 

You breathe deeply and draw on your bond’s strength, the reservoirs of Light in your own body coursing through to his, soaking life back into him. Carried on that tide is his astonishment and pain-- it must hurt to remember how to feel good.  You let his body rest on the hard floor of that unknowable cell within the Vault, thrumming with renewed Light and feeling it sink in. 

In a sensation only parsed as “behind” you, Praedyth is giving up on the whys and hows and instead digs his/your fingers deep into the pile of the rug, so far away in that shelter on Venus. His breathing is ragged even in your strong lungs, at a loss for what to do. You watch, whether he knows it or not. 

Praedyth tears off your gloves, unfamiliar armor clasps transmatting away to help him along. Your Ghost has always been tactful. With bare fingertips he explores the rub, the sulfur-pitted concrete walls, the rind of a fruit. The richness and variety fo sensations sends his arousal coiling through your stomach. 

It’s not how you expected him to spend this borrowed moment, but you aren’t complaining. Knowing this is filling a need is enough, and your attachment to him extends that far, certainly. 

“Can you feel this?” Praedyth rasps, and you almost fluster. “Is this--? Alright?” Your hands part your own armor to the Venusian jungle night, air heavy with warmth. 

You’d jerk him off if his poor body in the Vault could take it. Sliding this thought against him, you slot alongside him, enjoying the feeling of your body out of your control. 

Praedyth is vocal and moves so much, rubbing against the rug or bracing himself up on your knees, bare hands working between your legs, feverish and urgent. No buildup, just a headlong rush, but you fan the flames thinking of how it would feel to take him with both your bodies present, how you could turn those years of solitude into a bittersweet game of making him cum until he has to beg for rest. 

The tight shock that sends through the both of you makes Praedyth gasp, knees weak even on all fours, pitches him off-rhythm. He has to focus all over again, breathing hard and overheated in your armor. Vertigo tips his/your head down, ass up, and you long for the luxury of two bodies. What would be best would be to use his own body, fuck him in yours with his own cock, off-balance and off-guard. 

Praedyth moans, hips bucking, and you varnish that fantasy with hope. One day, you will. You’ll get him home and take care of him, teach him about what you like using his hands, his mouth. He’s been trapped so long in his own skin, you’ll take a turn. 

Finally, you come and it catches Praedyth by surprise with the force and depth of it, keening and desperately holding fast between your legs. 

You’d like another hour to feed him and remind him of the beauty of fresh water, but the connection is already fading. His concentration is shot, and your Light is thinning from effort. 

You hate to kiss and run, but maybe next time you’ll hold out longer.

“Don’t worry about that,” Praedyth murmurs, from his own voice, his own body, his cell. “This is… more than I can repay.”

You’re disentangling thread by thread, Praedyth shrinking. His is a panoptic prison, and you wonder if he can see the forces rallying to attack the Black Garden, the Guardians who are even now looking for their way to him.

You fade back into your sweaty body, rolling out flat on the rug and listening to the rain again. There’s nowhere the Vex can hide him that you won’t find, and nothing that could make you stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the new lore that dropped with Shadowkeep is so sexy and mindful... my clan loves Praedyth, so this feels almost heretical somehow.
> 
> Plus, it's the first day of the new raid! Who knows what we'll find in the Garden? :D


	3. TENTACLES - Riven/Reader

_ “Truly, of all my pursuants, I grow more and more fond of you,”  _ Riven chuckles, everywhere around the chamber inside herself, the physical body of an Ahamkhara saturated with her sound. One thousand voices culled down to a handful you know, familiar and battered, still amused.

The Techeuns ping you incessantly and you close the channel. As ever, you’ll brave Riven’s heart through the storm of Taken enemies, but you need a moment. Every cycle the same, you’ve got the ascent and battle down to an art. You don’t even need a team anymore, your armor tuned and battered to perfection, your guns modified for each exact purpose, the symbols of the wish wall carved on your heart. 

The Vanguard disapproves, Zavala’s uncharacteristic snarl at your arrogance for running this gauntlet on your own always echoing if you falter-- there is no chance to save you if you fall to Riven alone. 

Worse, you know, is his fear that Riven will breed further power from your desires. That you might deal with her like Mara did, or worse, consume her like the legends of Oryx’s worm. 

It’s understandable, but unfounded. You kneel to catch your breath amid the meadow of glowing cilia lining Riven’s strange cavity. Her heart gleams patiently at the center. 

_ “O mystery mine, have I worn you out at last?” _ Riven’s purr trembles in the air, her trust in the Dreaming City’s curse making her unafraid of a real death. She’s been chattier and more friendly every time, apparently charmed by your persistence. 

“No, I’ll be up in a minute.” You sigh, your Ghost briefly peering out of your pack before daring back in. “We’ll finish up soon.” Riven makes a thoughtful, even hopeful noise. 

You have never claimed a treasure chest from Riven, and you suspect this is primarily what sparks her interest in you. 

_ “Take your time.”  _ The hum is low and constant, her body dying and regenerating at the same rate. Until you take the heart, she is in limbo but no longer dangerous. _ “I enjoy your company. You Guardians are too frequently all business these days.” _

“The nature of the world, I guess.”

_ “Will you one day leave me for harder challenges?”  _ She doesn’t sound wistful, just curious. Musing aloud.  _ “In some way it makes me jealous.” _

“As long as you’re here, I’ll come to fight you.”

_ “I quite like that.” _ Something in the hum changes pitch. _ “Are we friends, my Guardian? One old mystery to another?” _

If you were smart, you’d grab the heart and run. But of anything, Riven would understand the melancholy of living only to die again. There’s something appealing about the idea of her as your friend.

“I would like that,” you admit. “But only if there’s no business involved.”

_ “As you wish. But then might I do you a favor, as a friend?” _

Your silence must sound doubtful. Riven tries again, the blue glow of the cilia warming to violet.  _ “Believe it or not, there are things I want, things I like. _ ”

_ “Your company, your consistency…”  _ She continues, cilia blindly bumping against your armor, gradually increasing in purpose and strength.  _ “How incorruptible you are… I haven’t given up. What a pleasure it would be to give you a gift you would accept.”  _

Even if her many voices, you know that tone. It should ring all your warning bells, but you stay quiet, letting the cilia swarm closer, pulsing light and testing the seams of your armor. 

_ “I want to express my admiration,” _ Riven says, each cilium tightening, cinching, and dragging you down into the warm floor of the chamber. Seduced by an Ahamkhara isn’t the worst way to die, you think, it’s at least a little original. 

She makes contented noises as the cilia begin fidgeting your armor away-- your Ghost mutters that it has an emergency transmat ready if you need it, which is very charitable considering how stupid you’re being.

The pressurized seals on your armor hiss and the cilia work in tandem, alternating between squeezing and rubbing against your body. Between your legs, up your spine, one pressed insistent against your neck to feel your pulse. 

It feels good, unnerving, the entire chamber constricting further and sinking more effort into touching you, peeling and squirming into your underarmor. To distract her, you mouth at a nearby cilium and feel Riven’s attention settle there, warm and slimy flesh tasting like nothing as it surges into your mouth unbothered by your teeth.

The sound of your breathing forced through your nose excites you and Riven in the same way, waves of motion sliding it deeper and sending the other cilia into a frenzy.

_ “How exciting, to be inside you for once.” _ She sighs, a long tendril sliding around the base of your bare throat even as the cilium pushes deeper, past your gagging, and it should alarm you, but the surrender is thrilling. Riven feels herself in your throat and it sends a wave of wriggling through the cilia, now redoubling to get under your body sheathe.  _ “If your mouth feels like this, I really must have the rest of you.” _

You could remove the underarmor, but there’s something you like about the cilia struggling underneath it, pressed close to you and leaving trails of slick moisture. Besides, you test moving your arms and find that Riven is having more fun holding yours wrists, your legs. Would she let you go if you exerted real strength? 

_ “Ah, there.” _ That’s the only warning you get before the first straining cilia find between your legs and your body jerks despite your best efforts-- it’s been a while since you’ve had the time to pay attention to yourself, or even find time to let off steam with a friend, and the shock of something exploring there, eagerly pressing and coiling, finding its way into you--

You moan around the cilium in your mouth and the whole room sighs in satisfaction. The constant motion of everything around you, now pressing gently but inexorably into you, is overwhelming and consuming. 

_ “Perhaps I have found something you’ll accept from me." _

You risk a little bite on the cilium as an admonishment, and Riven laughs, cilia twining together and forcing more deeply into you, your back arching and legs kicking.  _ “I can feel you wanting this. Not just here--”  _ She swells momentarily within you and your heart pounds as it squirms against the spot that makes your legs shake.  _ “But deeper.” _

More cilia course and churn against you, squeezing and forming suction, more and more lubricant building up from you and her. The thick cilium inside you sets a pace you can hear just as much as you feel, a muffled wail still gagged by Riven in your mouth. 

_ “You deserve this. To be claimed so thoroughly, rewarded for your work. Your restraint.”  _ The voices have all dropped to a whisper, coaxing.  _ “Show me how you enjoy this.”  _

The coy order hits you in a weak spot and you start to come, Riven writhing in delight inside you as it builds and then doesn’t stop, the inexhaustible cilia pumping and squeezing beyond what you can handle, overstimulated and thoughtless. Riven’s voice feels closer as the ciliar draw you further down, the glow shifting from blue to violet in luminescent waves.  _ “Again. I don’t want to stop.”  _

Neither do you-- you don’t want to stop, in fact nothing sounds better than staying like this, fucked in every hole until you can’t think and don’t want to, Riven focused on you and you alone, oh, O lover--

Just as a cilium tightens to weave you further into the nest, an old reflex defeats your need to keep coming and you throw a grenade, Light flaring to life and sending each tendril withdrawing from you with an almost painful speed, and you lunge back upright on shaking limbs, slick dripping down your thighs and chin. 

_ “You caught me!”  _ You can hear Riven’s smile, lined with teeth.  _ “Well, I had to tr--” _

You grab her heart and feel the crackle of the final turn of the curse, your Ghost hurriedly reapplying plates of armor and retrieving your guns. The Queenswalk is starting, and you force your legs to move, up and out of her throat, towards the final run, mind still hazy with pleasure and a heart-pounding panic. That had been so close to disaster. To wishing. 

So much for catching your breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Couldn't resist!


	4. GAGS - Zavala/Reader

While it might happen only in private, you’re sure nobody else gets away talking to Zavala the way you do. 

Maybe at the start of the evening you’d had a legitimate question when you’d entered his study, which is generally supposed to be a private space where he can work even after hours. Once the door closes, you set out to disrespect that. 

“I wish you’d put a little more pressure on the Cryptarchs about getting mod slots into Exotics.” You dangle a foot off the edge of the couch in the room, talking at Zavala while he’s still ensconced in his work. “I’ve felt it in the field and a lot of Guardians have approached about how they feel-- with some of the recent decryption changes, I’m not sure they’re as competitive.” 

You sigh, stretch, watch him carefully ignore you as he scrolls through a datapad. “While I’m at it, why is the Vault space still like it is? With the new advance on the Moon we really ought to have a little more room for new gear.”

Sigh more deeply, lay on the complaining tone a bit more. Calibrate to grind on his nerves. “In that same vein, the faction armor should be translated into ornaments now, so I can dismantle it. I mean, if we aren’t going to have another Faction Rally again anytime soon…” 

You rest your chin on your hand. “Also, why haven’t you authorized SRL to come back?”

Zavala sets down the datapad and takes a moment, both hands flat on his desk, and you have to work very hard not to grin. His eyes are the brightest light in the office, narrowed with annoyance. “I’ve heard enough, thank you.”

“What, I’m not allowed to gripe?” You stay casual on the couch, even as Zavala gets up, unlocks one of the drawers of a cabinet behind his desk, and let yourself sound gleeful. “You think I’m bad, maybe I should just pull up Van Net and start reading request threads?”

“You can try.”

“Just  _ try? _ ” You can’t help it, you squirm around on the couch in delight, resisting the impulse to assume a position ready for spanking. You can be obvious and Zavala will respond to it, but there’s nothing you like more than him making you into the shape he wants. 

He doesn’t give you an acknowledgment, not even a  _ mhm _ or a  _ Indeed _ , but you hear the brief jingle of a buckle and let excitement flood through you. Your Titan approaches holding a gag, the leather harness section designed to wrap over your face and tighten at the back of your skull, the rubber ball clearly for your mouth. 

Now you smile, although Zavala stays stony-faced-- you knew he had this, but you’ve never seen it in play. Normally another leather strap or a length of rope is good enough if he needs you gagged, but this is  _ deliberate _ . 

“You think I’ll let you put that on me?” You ask, and finally a smile starts to tug at Zavala’s face. This is part of it, the dance between obedience and making him make you do what he wants. It’s only fair, you sat here and tormented him the same way every single Vanguard meeting or a Consensus missive would, you want him to have an outlet. He can’t gag and fuck Executor Hideo-- well. He could if he wanted. 

Zavala takes your jaw firmly and you launch yourself at him, starting a fight that isn’t truly a fight, just your limbs needing to be pinned by his, the sound of the couch sliding back as Zavala exerts his weight on you, the jingle of the gag’s harness. He’d never hurt you, but you have to make it difficult for him.

That part of it is over when he finally gets the ball into your mouth, his hand staying there with fingertips pressing into your cheek, the other hand securing the harness straps around the back of your head. When he lets go to finish the harness buckle, you stay quiet, enjoy the feeling of him making sure the harness is snug to your skull, no wiggle room or much shift to the gag at all. The rubber tastes clean, free of any soap, and there’s a faint fragrance from the harness that makes you imagine him tending to the leather, making sure it stays soft and strong. 

“Now.” Zavala stands back, admiring the picture you make. “I’m going to finish my work, and we’ll continue after.”

Talking legibly is beyond you but you can still make a noise of indignation, starting to stand up and follow him back to his desk, and Zavala shoves you back down onto the couch with that breathtaking strength, leaves you just staring up at him and starting to drool around the rubber in your mouth. 

“Amuse yourself until then.” 

He leaves you with that, and you watch him sit back down at his desk, pick up right where he left off. 

You swallow thickly around the gag, and start to undo your pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's definitely a moment later when the Reader has been pushed past limits and fucked out almost senseless where they admit to Zavala that they really do want SRL to come back.


	5. VIBRATOR - Sloane/Amanda

Amanda lays back against Sloane’s bunk, practically electric with energy as Sloane removes her panties for her. Not that she needs any help, but her Titan wants to inspect the mess she made of her underwear, the bullet vibe still pocketed inside a gusset. All day, Amanda wants to groan, on and off, little intervals, just long enough to get ready to come and Sloane’d switch it off. 

“Good thing this is waterproof,” Sloane smiles, briefly holding Amanda’s panties to her nose as she watches the younger woman wriggle out of her shirt, unseal her prosthetic leg and set it to lean against the bulkhead by the bed. 

“Hey, if it’d broke, serve you right for what you put me through. All  _ day? _ ” 

“It sounded over comms like you were having fun.”

Well. That’s true. Amanda runs her hands over her body and imagines touching Sloane in the same spots, the older woman’s body a rich map of scars and muscles, unyielding but so inviting. Her mouth waters just watching Sloane set aside the bullet to be cleaned later, before rummaging through the footlocker. 

“So you’ve got endurance.” Sloane turns back around with a vibrator in hand, the wand thicker and the head bigger than the one Amanda keeps in her quarters-- somehow, it just looks more imposing, more… Sloane. “How’s your constitution?” 

Amanda pinches her knees together instinctively and Sloane grins, wolfish as she nudges them back apart and sinks in for a kiss. She never feels frightened with Sloane, just high-strung with anticipation. Amanda knows that if Sloane pushes her, it’s because she knows she can take it, want hers to take it, and she wants to make the Titan proud.

It’s also nice that making her proud coincides with nutting so hard her knees give out.

Sloane rolls her over onto all fours and gets settled behind her, over her, and there’s always a part of Amanda that wants to stop and just ask Sloane to fuck her, get the strap and rearrange her guts, but… she wants to know what that vibe feels like. A connoisseur’s interest. 

The opening sound of it is rumbly and Sloane takes her time tracing a way towards Amanda’s pussy with it, sometimes pressing harder until Amanda’s sure she can feel the vibrations deep in her thigh muscles, or backing off until it’s almost ticklish and soft. The first pass between her legs with it makes Amanda bite her lip and struggle to open her legs wider. “Oh, hell, Sloane--”

“Good?”

Amanda buries her face in the pillows, arching and straining to get the angle she wants, eventually shifting her weight to try moving a hand between her legs. “Let me--”

The vibrator shuts off instantly, Sloane getting that bossy-but-caring tone. “No, tell me what you want.”

At least with her face buried in the pillows like this, Sloane can’t see her go beet red. Not that she wouldn’t be able to hear it in Amanda’s voice, through gritted teeth. “Can you... nevermind, I’m bein’--”

“Spit it out, Holliday.” Sloane punctuates it with a soft kiss against Amanda’s shoulder-blade, ending with a little nip. 

“Can you spread me open?” There’s got to be a sexier way to ask for it, but she wants that vibrator on her clit, the rumbling head of it right where it’s going to knock her off her feet. 

Sloane takes direction as good as she ever does, Amanda arching her back against her in pleasure as the older woman’s hand slides from her flank down to between her legs, cupping Amanda with her palm briefly. So warm, and the texture of her hands… Sloane’s gentle but insistent when she parts Amanda just enough to expose her clit, and with her other hand rubs the vibrator there, the both of them enjoying the still toy’s glide over how wet Amanda is. 

Amanda opens her mouth to talk about how good that’ll feel when Sloane clicks the vibrator on and all the sensible stuff she’d had to say flies out of her mouth in a wordless exclamation. The vibrations send her body flexing and grinding away and toward the source of the intense sensations, Sloane at her back keeping her from going anywhere. 

She wants to tell her how much she loves that, how she loves the feeling of Sloane’s thighs and hips and her breath on the back of her neck, how good to feels to be underneath her and unable to escape. Sloane’s always like that, certainty and confidence in her and everyone else, rock solid against the wind and the tides-- 

“Talk to me, flygirl,” Sloane murmurs, moving the vibe away from Amanda’s clit and pressing more deeply against her pussy, driving Amanda to pant as she flexes and longs for Sloane to be there, inside her,  _ fuck _ . 

“Can’t-- s’takin’ all I’ve got-- to keep breathing, Sloane, ah--” 

“Well, don’t let me distract you.” She can hear Sloane smile and it puts butterflies into her stomach-- it always has, always will-- but then she moves the damn thing right back to her clit and just barely touches--

“Sloane,” Amanda gasps, and it runs into a chant, her hips twitching and her Guardian keeping the vibe exactly where it needs to be. Inescapable. Amanda cries out, hands twisting into the bedsheets and pillows for any kind of relief and Sloane’s breathing turns hot and loud right next to her ear, telling her how good she’s taking this, how much she wants to see her girl cum. 

Sweating and trembling, Amanda has to grab Sloane’s forearm and jerk the vibrator away from her body, almost instantly missing the vibrations and wishing she were stuffed full of Sloane’s strap at that moment, give her something to clench down on instead of just hot nothing… 

“That,” Amanda pants. “Ain’t fair. Where’d you… where’d you get that?”

“I made it.” Sloane nips at her earlobe, traces one of Amanda’s earrings with her tongue. “Ready for the next setting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes all you want to write is sweet lesbians and constant em dashes! :')


	6. FLOGGING - Spider/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secondary warnings specific to this fic are: Masochism, Xenophilia, and some Blood. Also technically a little Exhibition/Public Humiliation but not enough of a focus to tag for imo.

The Spider had long since given up on corporeal punishment as any kind of real tool for enforcing behavior-- beyond docking or death, what was the point of damaging your own goods? His crew rarely earned his ire anyway, well broken-in, and a new associate’s mistake was usually their last.

You, his Guardian, are trickier, standing in his audience chamber all but in a spotlight, the entrance locked behind you and his crew gathered in the shadows ringing in. Punishing a for-all-intents immortal would be a waste of time, but he can’t just let you get away with trying to infiltrate his personal vault.

Watching Arrha gesture for your armor to come off, Spider honestly feels a little proud that you’d have the guts to challenge him, but frustrated because you so obviously want something else. The obviousness of your attempted heist tells him that you probably didn’t mean it in earnest. Your willingness to play along with this also tells him something. 

“So you can imagine where this is going,” Spider offers, one hand fidgeting with his dead Ghost and the other three trying not to drum their fingers. There’s a nervous, hungry energy from the onlookers of his crew, who on principal like to see an overachiever get taken down a peg. 

You smile, looking unbothered for being stripped down to the body sheathe of your armor. Spider sighs. If you had been Eliksni, maybe in some way the hierarchy would’ve spared him attraction to you, but the allure of a brat to correct is undeniable in any species. “Like a pirate, right?” Your soft lips and your blunt teeth. “Twenty lashes before the mast.”

Spider chuckles warmly. “Oh, no, we won’t be counting.” 

He waves Arrha forward and a brief look of annoyance crosses your face, but you go gracefully to your knees. Unsurprisingly, you don’t cry out at the first crack of the flogger.

The voyeur energy of his crew intensifies, whispers passing as you take each one. The underarmor won’t last forever, and Arrha is strong enough to bruise with every strike, and smart enough not to focus on one spot. The sway of your hips as a strike bites into your backside catches his eye and whets his imagination. 

It could continue indefinitely, knowing the strength of the mesh and the Guardian underneath it. Spider lifts a hand to halt the proceedings, and a few breaths are taken and held in the shadows. “Allow me, Arrha.”

The cables of his throne creak as he dismounts, full weight and height revealed to you. All it does is coax a winded half-smile from you, sweat bright under the smoky blue light. “Finally.”

This, the Spider realizes as he takes a quill from Arrha’s armor, is what you were after. With a deft movement he snags the quill’s hook in the underarmor, ripping a hole across the back and exposing a stretch of smooth, if not clearly abused skin. What a strange little pervert you are, to seek this outside your own species. Not that he’s complaining. 

The flogger makes a different noise going through the still air when Spider wields it, the very first strike slapping red human blood everywhere. And, finally, you cry out-- not entirely in pain, Spider suspects. 

His crew electrifies as he continues, his lashes stronger and slower, flinging sprays of that dark red blood and drawing every manner of noise from you. He can hear that blood patter from the flogger and speckle his mask, the underarmor shredding just like the skin over your small bones. Every shout and groan makes the room hungrier, and Spider entertains the idea of letting his crew swarm forward to tear you apart, or fuck you to pieces-- the eroticism of the powerful laid low and open surely affected them as much as it did him. 

A strike lands across your bare ass and your split back arches, arms trembling visibly with effort. Spider’s hard breathing is well-earned, and he fully believes this kind of damage would have killed or at least totally sundered another human. Not his Guardian. If anything…

He puts a clawed foot on your head and kicks the back of your legs, forcing your hips higher for inspection. Human arousal can be subtle, especially with the harsh saline edge to your blood so thick. An exploratory finger in the source reveals a shocking heat and flexibility, your moans sharpening abruptly. 

“Show’s over,” the Spider announces, some disappointed chittering making him crack the flogger again for good measure. Arrha stays as Spider settles back on his throne, collecting the dazed, shaking Guardian up from the floor. 

“If that’s all you wanted, you need only ask,” he sighs, Arrha lifting you up higher to be within reach, and Spider’s arms clamp down, fingers sinking into blood furrows or sweaty flesh. “Believe it or not, I can be charitable when the mood sways me.”

“And is the mood…” You lick parched and bitten lips, head lolling as Spider frees one hand to undo his robes, armor plating. Exposing his sheathe, he pulls it back and both organs slide free and upright, desperately wet and begging for attention. 

“Are you,” his Guardian starts again, distracted. “In the mood?”

“Very much so, my friend.” He lines the tips of both cocks up to your convenient hole and holds them together, preparing to fit both inside you in one go. Your blood and sweat smear over his hands and clothes as he begins to lower you onto himself. “I feel quite generous tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I just learned that the Spider is voiced by Robin Atkin Downes, of Commander Miller from MGS repute, and honestly time and my life are both flat circles. It's just a repeating loop of being horny for Kaz.


	7. PRAISE/VOICE KINK - Banshee/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karleesi requested Banshee and I figured a little voice kink/praise kink would be perfect!

“Don’t worry about it much,” Banshee had explained, when you were too drunk to resist asking him the big question. “I’ll always know you by your work.”

He’ll probably forget you tearing up at that, being emotional in front of the bar and all those Guardians, eventually crying, and then escalating into bawling. They might get it, but you don’t know many artisans in their ranks, not like you, not like Banshee. It’s hard to explain what that means, that your work has left such an impression on the man, mentor, and sometimes lover that you admire so much.

Especially when it’s Banshee, and what it means for something to stick to him, for him to remember you. If all he ever knows about you is that you do good detail work on guns and he’s allowed to kiss you, you’ll start over from scratch every time if you have to. 

You’re surprised when he arrives at your workshop, namely because it’s really your house, and you don’t list yourself in the City registry under your professional name. It’s practically a requirement for a freelancer as popular as you, and in general you don’t make yourself easy to find even for friends. 

“Banshee!” You greet him with your hands still greasy with ceraparaffin from an experiment you’re doing with casting. He looks pleasantly surprised to see you, holding up a little handwritten note. 

“Must be the right place.”

“Yep! Come on in.”

You’d written him that note a long time ago, and it makes you smile to think of him holding onto it, much less navigating a warm City night just to get to you. 

Once through your house and out to the small workshop set up in your backyard, Banshee seems more comfortable. It’s all the tools, you’re pretty sure, all the in-progress projects and drafts, some sculptural and others more practical. He briefly looks over a thoroughly-clamped mould before sitting down on your for-once clean couch, patting the cushion for you to join him. 

You think about going straight for his lap, but that might be something you’re projecting onto the moment. 

“Might be early, might be late, but,” Banshee offers you a neatly-wrapped parcel, the exact paper corners almost too pretty to undo. “You got a birthday, right?”

“I do, but…”

“C’mon.” Banshee nods at the package, nudges your shoulder with his. “Lemme spoil you.”

Unfolding the wrapping reveals a stack of precisely sliced cross sections of some kind of geode or crystal-- holding one up to the light reveals a stunning clarity and clouds of violets, indigos, a range of colors so pure you can almost hear them.

“Samples, from the Dreaming City,” Banshee explains, his voice soft like he doesn’t want to break your focus. “They’re precious with it, but you come up with a maquette for somethin’, bet it’d charm ‘em into donating some.”

“Oh, Banshee, they’re beautiful…” Already your imagination is running wild with thoughts of paneling for sidearms, veining the stock of a shotgun with the beautiful stone, maybe cross-sections slid into the chamber of a revolver-- “I don’t even--? Thank you? Thank you so much, they’re wonderful! I can’t wait to use them!”

“It reminded me of you,” Banshee watches you carefully set the samples aside before you crawl onto his lap, straddling him and cupping his jaw in your hands. “Figured you’d put it to good use.”

“You’ve already got me in the palm of your hand, you don’t have to flatter me.”

He makes a disgruntled noise, hands sliding down your waist to anchor themselves on your butt. “You think I’m blowin’ smoke up your ass?”

“Ah, well… no, but… forget I said anything.” You lean forward, press a kiss against his facial plates, right between the eyes. 

“C’mon.” Banshee leverages some of that deceptive Exo strength and hikes you up higher on his lap, fingers squeezing your ass as his voice drops to somewhere near your throat, close enough to your ear that you shiver. “Lemme spoil you.”

You grip his shoulders, the thick fabric of his scarf smelling faintly of the gun oil he uses, the tang of leftover ozone. “B-Banshee…”

“Your weapon works are my favorite,” he rumbles, gripping your ass like he wants to slap it, instead rubbing, appreciating the curve, skirting with touching the undersides of your thighs. “Best designs Omolon ever had, they got from you.”

“Oh, that’s generous but patently--”

“Hush up.” Banshee pinches hard enough to make you lean to get away from it, inadvertantly grinding you on his thigh. “That Crimson ornament?”

He told you to hush, so you bite your lip and listen to the rasp of his voice, the way it’s so rough you can feel the vibrations of it in his plating.

“Pisses me off to see a Guardian dismantle one.” He noses against your neck, the lights of his eyes and mouth casting a blue that almost makes your skin look like the Dreaming City crystal. “Thinkin’ that’s your work, they don’t even know what they got.”

You whimper, Banshee guiding your hips by way of your ass to rock down and against his thigh deliberately now. The thought of his fingers in you makes you clench.

“S’what I always think of you. That you should be bigger, and I wanna keep you my secret.” Banshee lets out a rare Exo sigh, fans venting. “As long as I can. Just… mine.”

Your toes curl when his voice hits that low register, hearing some of the restraint in it-- Banshee likes to go slow, but this a new level of teasing for him.

“You like it, huh?” He’s either remembered or rediscovered what his voice does to you at close range, and you nod. Restlessly, you flex your tired thighs, wishing he would spare just a finger, or lift his thigh a bit higher-- “When I tell you how good you are?”

Whether he means professionally or how helplessly you grind on his lap doesn’t matter-- he means both, and he says it again. Hot and cold run up your spine at his voice, and he puts it to good use as soon as you beg him for more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banshee doesn't get enough horny credit. Masterwork this pwusse


	8. TELEPATHY - Xol/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dub-con warning in effect for this chapter!

The sense of being watched on Mars has always been strong, and you’d always chalked it up to Rasputin. Nothing, you guessed, happened here without the Warmind’s knowledge. 

Certainly you had to be scoring brownie points with him now, staying busy like this. The latest round of patrols has chased you around the Hellas Basin with the sensation of eyes on your back and something more like breath than frozen wind on your neck.

You absently touch the back of your neck, finding only armor. The cold bite of Mars is dulled to a gnawing through all the insulation and the glow of your own Light. Just feels off, somehow. 

Fresh snow crunches under your boot and your Ghost refreshes the network uplink, looking for new patrols or updates from the Vanguard. He marks icons on your HUD and slowly drifts out of view as your next step forward seems to knock all the strength out of your knees. 

It’s a dreamy, slow fall backwards, a rushing ocean sound swelling up from snow and red rock and blue ice and--

**YOU SHALL DRIFT**

Mind floating free and untethered to your body, you feel a little relief. Not much, but you know that voice, the way it rattles the space between atoms. Better the devil you know-- and hadn’t you known, holding Whisper of the Worm for the first time? Hadn’t you used that gun knowing every death fed Xol, and that one day he would unfurl and hunger for yours?

**YOU SHALL DREAM IN THE DEEP**

Colors, the light of stars behind eyelids, the satisfaction of a perfectly-placed headshot. You can feel Xol rifling through senses and memories, collaging what he wants you to know. In darkness, your back arches, the sensation of not so much receiving pleasure as taking it, power, your will--

The perception of your body that you have here, so deep in your own consciousness, is a blur at best. Xol, as thick around as your calf and twice your length, coils and squeezes, threaded between (legs) and around (neck) you. 

**HAVE WE NOT FED WELL**

It’s true. He makes a good gun. His thoughts are thunder among yours, overwhelming and impossible to ignore. 

**OTHER SHAPES AWAIT**

The language of Guardians: gear fashioned from slain enemies, sword logic carving them into the vestments of a young god. You. 

Xol thrums and slides in an infinite loop around you, tight with desire and hope. Nokris had been his last good bet, but you… he can take you to the top. Xol, no longer the weakest, instead your feasting patron. Partners.

**PARTNERS**

Heat from deep, primal roots of your brain courses out, Xol giving you a view of your own beautiful form wracked with autonomic pleasure, the closest thing he can generate for you to describe the satisfaction of conquering, the imposition of your will over odds and reality. Even the impressions of his own associations (a steaming hatching creche, Hive larvae squirming over every surface, churning) doesn’t stop the deep, shaking spasms.

Xol sinks into the altar of this worship, into you, hissing in the exultation of a new, strong host, burrowing deeper into your psyche with the reflexive motion of digestions. Swallowing. 

**AIAT**

Foreign Light breaks the spell, Xol’s telepathy failing at the sudden flash of illuminating lightning. Your thoughts detangle and snap you back to your body fast enough to make you gasp, eyes flying open.

Your Ghost peers down, accompanied by Ana Bray. There’s snow melting on your face and a mess in your armor that matches the trembling in all your limbs.

“Did you… drop a snowball? On me?” You slur a little bit, not yet attempting to get up.

“Did you get telepathically subsumed by a Hive god?” Ana shoots back, tossing her backup snowball over her shoulder. The worry in her face is replaced by amusement, and it calms you down to see it. The spice and brightness of her presence makes the writhing darkness feel farther away.

“Maybe a little.”

Ana hauls you upright and keeps a steadying hand on your armor, holding your helmet out for you. You take it back but don’t immediately don it, breathing the sharp cold air and feeling the sweat dry on your temples. 

“Did Xol, uh…” Ana trails off, but clearly isn’t going to drop it. “‘Seduce’ you? You’re flushed. And there may have been some moaning when I showed up--”

“It was how he wanted to illustrate power, I guess.” Unequipping Whisper of the Worm and slamming it rifle-first into the packed snow and dirt, you leaving standing upright and gleaming in frustrated power. “So he can stay out here and think about what he did for a bit.”

“Well…” Ana draws it out playfully. “I’ve got some things back at base that might paint a better picture.”

“Huh?”

“Now  _ I’m _ seducing you. Come on, wormfood.” She loops her arm through yours and begins leading you down the snowy slope. Whether she’s joking or not, her company feels perfect, some of Mars’ chill melting away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You catch my eye as I pull on an airbrushed Tweety Bird shirt from the mall, customized to say
> 
> CALL THE BIG MONSTER BOSSES  
I'LL FUCK THEM TOO.


	9. TOYS - Ana Bray/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically kind of a follow-up to the Xol chapter, but it can be stand-alone too!

You had halfway thought Ana was joking, but as usual, she’s fiercely genuine and doesn’t break stride until you’re back in her quarters, door encrypted, and a mess of journal pads and old data chips swept hurriedly off her bed. It’s a hectic little space but it doesn’t seem to bother her, already undoing her cloak, wrestling out of her boots.

“Ana?”

“Yup?”

“Are you…” It’s been a long day. “Just, what’s happening?”

“Did Xol fry your brain?” She’s only half-teasing, now moving on to unbuckle her armor. “I really am seducing you. Why aren’t you naked yet?”

She says it like she’s talking about patching software or planning her day. And in any other situation it’d be charming. But you can’t help but feel like as soon as you make a move, she’ll laugh and twist away-- you seriously fell for it?

Which isn’t fair, Ana’s always been nice enough to you, but… she’s Ana. Her brain goes in one thousand directions at lightspeed at all times. That attention turned on you seems improbable, even wasteful. 

“I’ve been waiting forever to show you this,” she’s saying, now completely naked and dragging a box from storage under her bunk. “But like, when is a good time to bring that up? Especially since we’re both so busy and you’re you and you’re always somewhere else, but--”

“Ana?”

“Yes!” She springs back up, slightly flushed. “Oh. You’re not naked. Are you not getting naked? Do you not want to do this? Because that’s totally fine, I just--”

“I think… I need you to go a little slower, please.”

Ana stares, amber eyes wide before she blinks, reanimates, warms the room with her enthusiasm. “Oh! Yeah! Yeah, of course, duh-- foreplay, right? I’m just used to like, going straight at it since it’s, um, usually just me--”

You touch her cheek and she freezes. “Do  _ you _ want to do this?”

Some of that Hunter fire lights somewhere inside and Ana almost throws you onto her bunk, blankets messy and pillows askew. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of her, beautiful and briefly startling when she crawls up between your legs.

“Of course I want to. I’ve wanted to since we met, you’re just hard to pin down, and…” She tosses her hair, normally busy fingers laying like a promise on your chest. “I hate that Xol was in your brain. I only want you to think about me.”

You try to help her with your armor and she slaps your knuckles, muttering about unwrapping her own presents, thanks. She pauses for a moment at the first real sign of your skin before swooping in for an open mouthed kiss, the first one fast and the others light and flurrying like she can’t stay too long. 

“Okay! Come here, I want you over here,” Ana tugs you up from the bunk, returning to the stored box. She lifts out what looks like a modified sparrow saddle, set on its own mount and prickling to life when Ana flips a switch.

“Why does this seem like an Amanda idea?” You ask, running a hand over the polished, hypersoft leather.

“We… collaborated.” Ana looks distracted. “But, mine is better. I’ve made a bunch of modifications and add-ons, all kinds of features. Sit down! Take her for a spin.”

Knowing she’ll push you if you don’t move, you gently lower yourself and straddle the seat, some of the planes adjusted for sensation rather than comfort like a normal sparrow. Ana is already fiddling with what looks like a controller for it, and you reach out to pause her.

“A kiss for the road?”

“I’m not, um,” Ana mumbles as you draw closer, eyelashes fluttering down to the last moment. “I’m… out of practice.”

She’s a live wire, unused to the kind of tenderness you want to visit on her. There’s a fantasy growing for you of some gentle restraints and going down on her as slowly and thoroughly as you can. Ana breathes hard through her nose and her hands hover at your shoulders. You touch her elbows and press her hands against you and her breath hitches at the contact. A little starved for touch. 

Your chances of coaxing her into bed are seeming good when the seat underneath you rumbles and you almost double over with a gasp. “Ana--!”

“I got flustered, okay? This is supposed to be about you!”

You brace your arms on your thighs and try to adjust to the vibrations of the saddle, your weight pressing all your most sensitive parts firmly against the thrumming surface.

“It’s good, right? Watch this. I added lube reservoirs and micropores to the seat mesh.” She’s too pleased with herself, and you moan as the seat slicks up underneath you, friction melting away into a glide. 

“Ana--” You want to hold onto her, something, anything than the bundle of energy between your legs. “I--I’m not going to last, this is good, but--”

“Did you only want to cum once?” Ana sounds genuinely puzzled, and your answer is stolen away with another gasp, your tired hips rocking and sliding, chasing the steady hum even as it becomes overwhelming.

This time you do reach out and Ana laces her fingers with yours, drawing up close for a feather light kiss as you cum on the saddle, panting and keening and riding it as long as you can stand. 

When it’s too much, your sharking knees can barely support you enough to lift you from the saddle, and Ana cuts the vibrations, studying the slick on your thighs and the heat you left on the saddle.  Her fingers, gentle and warm draw across you just once and she lifts the taste of you to her mouth, concentrating.

“Ana,” You sigh, throbbing and exhausted, not even remotely ready for the next round. “Is there room for two on this?”

Her face lights up, delighted you like the toy and that you’d ask her to join you. “Yeah! Do you want an attachment? I’ve got tons, all sizes, a couple of  _ real _ weird ones--”

“No, just you.” Gingerly scooting back, you open your arms and Ana takes your hands to steady herself as she gets comfortable on the seat facing you. 

She looks embarrassed at this range again, making quiet noises of wanting more when you loop your arms around her, draw her in more snugly against your front. “Just me?”

You’re about to answer when she turns the saddle back on, this time at an intensity that makes you cling to her and hold on for dear life. 


	10. CUCKOLDING - Andal/Cayde/Reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also relevant tags are threesome and voyeurism!

Hunters didn’t really respect the sacred concept of dibs, Cayde had found. Or else they did and it was just Andal who was a pain in the ass. 

Not that he’d ever be so ungentlemanly as to call dibs on you-- after all, you were your own Guardian, strong and independent and maybe exactly Cayde’s type. But, technically, there had been some fireteam chat about it. Just musings. He definitely hadn’t told Shiro to keep his eyes on his own cards or impressed on Andal that he was going to make a move, in his own time, at his own pace. 

Across the bar, Andal turns, leans in a different direction and the orange light of the strung bulbs rolls over him like honey. Highlights his jaw, cheek bones, Cayde almost turns away, but he likes that view too much, even when Andal’s aiming it at somebody else. Specifically, you. Cayde’s not sure who he wants to be most in the equation when you laugh at whatever it was Andal said, angling your face closer to his. Teasing. 

Andal flicks a look at Cayde, who stares back almost dumbly until you look too, and suddenly his drink is fascinating, actually. Especially if he swirls it around. Nonchalantly. 

Through the hum of the other conversations quilting the bar, Cayde hears your laugh again and tosses his drink back in one go. Hoping to tune out the voice that says you might be laughing at him--  _ drown _ out the one that says that’d be just fine, he got a taste for that when it’s you. 

Andal complicates everything, whether he means to or not. 

Cayde resents it, sulking as he pays and slips out of the bar into the deep late night, orange light filmy on the few patches of undisturbed snow. Just plain unfair, Andal gets to do whatever and whoever he wants and Cayde lets him. Wants him to, something between satisfaction and jealousy, and he doesn’t even know who it’s for. 

He should use that as an excuse for tailing Andal when he leaves with you. Cayde doesn’t telegraph it, but Andal has to know. They’ve been living in each others’ pockets for so many seasons, Andal knows when he’s followed and he’ll know it’s Cayde. His hood ducks briefly to your ear, you respond with something Cayde can’t quite pick up. Doesn’t sound like a no, he thinks, insides electric with anticipation. 

He probably doesn’t even have to crawl into the vents of this kitbashed little inn, the walls are thin enough he’d probably hear you and Andal from the street. But it’s part of the game, following your Light like a waypoint on a map. 

Cayde settles in with his junk pressed against the bottom of the vent and a pretty good view down into the room through a thin grill of metal. Tries to ignore how ready he is to watch Andal get your motor running. 

But he doesn’t, not like he does with Cayde, or even Shiro for that matter, he moves in broad strokes and with an unusual urgency-- palming your sensitive spots through your armor, backing you up against the bed with dark promises instead of kisses. Maybe, Cayde thinks, that’s more your speed. Maybe you’re not here to kiss, and Andal’s giving you what you really want when he all but tosses you up on the squeaking mattress springs. 

You yank his hood back and grab his hair when he mouth goes to your ear, jaw, one hand rudely popping the clasps on your armor too roughly.

Maybe, Cayde thinks, body locked in place and sweltering, that pisses you off, the way you squirm under him and breathe hard. Cayde can see your face perfectly, Andal’s mouth finally getting to your neck and your gaze unfocusing. 

He didn’t even know Andal could go this fast or this sloppy, hiking your thighs up, around his waist. You drag one of his hands back up to keep grabbing at your chest where the armor has cracked open to reveal skin. His other hand keeps working hard at the layers of armor and sheaths farther down. Cayde can’t see when Andal finally finds you, but he can see your body jerk at his touch, your legs tensing. You hiss at him for not even taking his gloves off and Cayde almost shivers as Andal just hurries his work, his hand on your chest sliding up to press flat against your collarbone. 

Cayde’s hips rub slowly against his hiding spot, freezing as you grab Andal’s wrist and suck on a few of his fingers, his busy hand doing something new that makes you cum-- quickly, like he just wants your edge taken off. This is the first, but it won’t be the last. Andal stays still for a moment like he’s enjoying your pleased, impatient noises, just a little sweaty and still mostly in your armor. 

For a moment, Andal’s shoulder blocks you as he lines himself up and starts to press his cock into you, and you make the perfect sound to describe how it feels. Cayde’s synthetic muscles clench at the memory, how Andal feels thick at first and then it just doesn’t stop. Every inch hot and inescapable. 

Your hands wring and twist into Andal’s cloak and you say something to him, Cayde bets it’s smart, the way Andal snaps his hips into you and doesn’t stop, the bed creaking obscenely under the weight of two Guardians. He wants to worm his hand down his pants, any kind of touch would be better than blank pressure and the warm soak of lube he’s covering himself in. Cayde can’t move, not as your jaw drops and you start to cry out, Andal’s pace hitching your breath, your voice. 

Andal barely pauses to lean down, slowing only slightly as he lines up flush against your body, the stripes of his cape vibrant and the edge ragged as it draws over one of your calves. His gloved hand, spit and your slick still shiny on the fingers, comes up to grab your jaw and force your head back as he whispers in your ear, Cayde straining to hear above the thrumming of his own body. 

He knows Andal’s voice at that range, how it mixes up with the torturous slide of his cock stuffed somewhere it barely fits, how anything seems reasonable if it’ll make him move, make-- 

“ _ Please, _ Cayde!” You wail, hoarse and angry but still begging. “Alright?  _ Please _ fuck me, Cayde!” 

Maybe he jumps and a bolt suddenly gives out or Andal throws a well-placed knife or the comedic timing of Cayde’s life kicks in, but the whole vent dislodges, dumping him down into the room, only barely missing landing on the bed. 

Andal waits for the racket to settle, for Cayde to scramble up, collect himself just a little, before gesturing to his teammate. “See? I told you. The closet’s too cliche for him.”

“Hi,” Cayde says, too stunned to be furious at Andal and vividly aware his soaking dick is going to pop out of him like a chestburster if he moves in any direction. 

“You’re going to pay the inn for that,” you pant, flinching as Andal pulls out, a hand going to cup yourself against the colder air of the room. “Hey!”

“I’m tagging you in,” Andal says to Cayde, suddenly filling up Cayde’s vision suddenly all of him up against him. His cock is still hard, bobs for a moment near Cayde’s thigh and the only thing he can look at is the sweat at the hollow of Andal’s throat. 

“Andal,” Cayde says, intelligently, and the man’s now-bare hand runs across the plates of his cheek, soft kiss slotting up to Cayde’s mouth, chest working hard. Cayde feels an embarrassing rush of warmth for him right before Andal slips a hand down his armor, down his pants, releases Cayde’s dick from its hot confines with a gush of lube and a jerk of Cayde’s hips. “Wow, could you not-- just do that-- a little warning, please--”

“Better hurry up,” Andal mutters, mouthing at Cayde’s cheek even as he drags him into place. “Or I’ll kick you out and finish what I started.”

Cayde finds himself faced with you, his eyes first on where you’re bare and still waiting to be filled back up, and then to your face, which is visibly annoyed. It’s cute, he thinks, instinct engaging as he lines himself up with where Andal just was, where you’re still fucked open, his face and body settling in close to yours. 

The head of his cock bumps the knuckles of your gloves and you bite your lip as your fingers part, letting him nudge and press at your skin. 

“It’s, ah, nice to meet you, finally,” Cayde manages, circuits and body overheating as he struggles not to come just from beginning to sink into you. Your composure finally cracks as he bottoms out, legs starting to shake. 

“Shut up. Move. Oh,  _ move _ , Cayde, Andal. Either. Both. Whichever--”

Andal, now totally bare and even warmer than before with Light rushing through him, slides up behind Cayde and bumps their hips together, shoving him into you as your back arches, a gasp trailing into a moan, then into a wail, and finally more pleading. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I might do more Andal-focused stuff and explore more of him, because I feel like this is a thin vertical slice of 'annoyed that Cayde won't stop bringing burrs into my sleeping bag and I'm going to fuck with him' Andal.


	11. SIZE DIFFERENCE - Reader/Saladin

Finishing the last clasps, your Ghost seals the complete armor set, silently pressurizing it before quietly ducking away. “How’s it look?” You flex for Saladin, the final draft of the new Iron Banner armor sitting light and steady on your body.

Ignoring the arch of your back and some deliberate flexing of your thigh muscles, the Iron Lord takes a few steps around, finding a different angle. “More importantly, how does it feel?”

“Good. Your gear always does. The range of motion is excellent.” You strike a heroic pose, watching him. “Think you could fit more wolves on it, though? We all love more wolves.” 

Saladin makes a  _ hm _ of amusement, although he stays focused on the armor, watching you test it, stretch and twist. “Maybe next season.” 

It was always a ‘maybe next season’ with him, but you rarely complain. You like the hope that it implies-- that next season, you’ll return to the mountain temple and light the big brazier in his personal room, drive the incessant cold back into the stone for a bit. 

The time you spend with him like this is precious, how as soon as his developing armor goes onto you, some of his comes off and the old, hidden instincts of an artist are revealed. He’ll sketch, ask you to hold a pose, discussing how the armor feels with you. He’ll handle your body gently and firmly, bending you to the correct pose, testing how his ideas sit on a living body. 

Why Saladin chose you of all Guardians for this is a mystery you’ve stopped picking at. You loved Iron Banner, excelling at his challenges and setting new ones for yourself: making him laugh, finding gifts of food he’d accept, trying to get closer. Shiro had joked once it’s because you take up less materials than the average Guardian, your size being closer to that of one of the Tower’s civilians. If Saladin was a wolf, you felt like a teacup dog. 

It makes you feel safe, modeling for him and trying your best to help with the creation of new armor designs. A big, comforting presence, that you were slowly seducing further and further. That moved even slower than the artistic process. 

“So? Does it accentuate my assets?” You stretch, enjoying the tease of hiding inside the helmet as you find different ways to pose. 

Saladin looks distracted, and not in the way you want. But the corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile anyway. “Show me armor that doesn’t.” 

“Hah! That was smooth. Should we practice taking it off manually?”

That seems to drag him out of whatever reverie he’d sunk into, a bit more serious. “It needs a field test first. Would you run a patrol, check for warping or weak points?”

“Sure. I’ll go roughhouse with Shiro, too.”

Saladin seems to waver between business and fun. “Be gentle.”

  
  
  


You aren’t, but Shiro isn’t either. He knows what you’re up to and purposefully puts some of his well-rounded skills to use, testing different weapons, different ammunition grades, and you try to keep your mind on the task at hand. Monitoring the armor, listening to your body, although all it has to say is how much it wishes Saladin were fighting you. Tossing you to the snow, flipping you over his shoulder. Even clotheslining you during one mistaken charge with a shotgun. 

The strength of him, Saladin’s ability to just throw you down and pin you… what should’ve been another sexually unresolved sparring match had driven you to kiss him that first time, truly set things off, all because you loved his weight on you too much to bear. 

Shiro’s got stuff to do, and eventually you have to pull yourself out of daydreams and go on that patrol. Scaling the icy mountains in the armor is easy, and you’re forced to stop being horny for a moment to appreciate how much work Saladin puts into these designs, every single time. 

You’re still a Guardian, so you can only spend so much time out in the wilderness before you have to come home. Snow melts off the armor in rivulets as you enter the hall, the temperature rising as you get further into the temple, your own temperature rising as well.

Saladin is still in his personal quarters, the brazier going strong and the small fireplace stacked with coals. The air is warm but it burns your cold ears and nose as you wrench the helmet off, toss it away as you cross the room to get to him. It should annoy him, but he sees your intent a mile away and doesn’t fight the tide.

You have to reach up and drag him down by the fur of his cloak, the one piece of armor he keeps on even when alone and at home, breathing hard through your nose as you kiss him, stopping only to mouth at his lower lip, hold it safely between your teeth. “This is a field test, too.” 

“Excuses, excuses.” Saladin rumbles, slow and deep and unhurried.

“You don’t think the Iron Banner gets us fired up?” You stretch up on your toes, putting your weight against him. “If I had a stack of Glimmer for every time someone admitted to me they’d run off to their bunk after hearing you praise them…” 

Saladin lifts you, arms around your waist, until you’re above him, maybe by just half a head. Looks up at you, dark and warm. “And do you, still?”

You throw your head back and laugh, feeling Saladin watch you, knowing he deeply adores your spirit. “No!” Tightening your legs around his waist, you get close, cupping his jaws in your hands. “I run right to you.” 

It must be the right answer, because he kisses you this time. Like he doesn’t want to stop, or even set you down, and you have to threaten him with the grind of your hips. Saladin relents, knowing you’ll rut all the way to completion on almost any part of him, and he wants to see you get out of the armor.

That’s what you’re guessing, by the way he gives you space, lets you find and undo the unfamiliar armor, plates falling to the stone temple floor, clanking. Maybe even scratching. He knows you love and respect his work, but it’s meant to be used. In this moment, it’s meant to fall away from your body, leave you warmed-up and bare in the firelight. 

Saladin is waiting for you on the sort of slab of slightly less stoney stone he calls a bed, heaped high with furs, still mostly clothed. You step up and he lifts you the rest of the way, settling back in the nest with you straddling his lap, naked skin contrasting with the colors of the fur brushing up around you both. 

“I’m taking you down to the hilt.” You announce it in a murmur, frustration igniting as Saladin leans away, presses a light hand to your chest. 

“Easy, Guardian. We don’t--”

“If you say ‘we don’t even know if you can,’ I’ll drag Shiro in here and make him fist me.” 

“Sometimes, I can’t believe you kiss me with that mouth.” Saladin sighs. 

“Just let me try, alright?” You could plead, but your pride wouldn’t let you. “I’ve been practicing.”

His ears practically perk up like a wolf’s, and at the very least his hands run up and down your flanks, soothing. Conceding. You spend more time apart than together, and you like that he likes the idea of you fucking yourself with the thought of him in mind. 

It’s true, of course, and you think back on it as you undo his trousers, push his shirt up a little to admire the strength of his core. Hard not to think of Saladin even when you’re alone, the feeling of his thick fingers inside you, his mouth on you, his cock wet between your thighs-- 

“Not enough,” you sigh, rubbing your face against the rough weave of his shirt just over the long line of his collarbone, finally curving your hand around the full heft of his cock, working him free from his pants. “I want you.” 

“You have me.” Saladin says it deeply, earnestly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “So don’t rush.” He pauses, muscles tensing as you stroke him, just barely. 

If you asked him to, he would endure hours of light teasing, restrained only by his will and your word, but you didn’t ask. Saladin rolls you over and eclipses your body with his, your laugh muffled by his chest as you sink into the soft furs, his body heat and weight shielding you from the cold of the room. He’s big enough that he can easily keep a hand cupping your cheek, thumb pressing and dipping into your mouth as he kisses down the length of your body, settling between your legs and wasting no time kissing you there, too. When his mouth opens and his breath rolls across your thighs you gasp, twisting in pleasure as his tongue finds you. 

You can tell by how slow and intent he is, the occasional sigh or rumbled groan, he’d be happy to stay there all night, and might even try to convince you to let him. He’s making an excellent case for it. Your hips twitch and you make enough noise to signal Saladin to pause, not moving but merely glancing up at you.

The sight of him like that makes you repeat to yourself how much you won’t beg, don’t plead, can’t. “Fingers?”

He makes you wait while he retrieves the oil you both prefer to use as lube, which is fair, but you stick a foot out and hold him back until he finishes disrobing the rest of the way. Saladin likes it when you’re picky, when you let him know exactly what you want from him, no uncertainty or meanings to misinterpret. 

When he’s done, his bare skin radiates warmth and drags wonderfully against yours, smooth and lined with the scars of several lifetimes over. Saladin’s weight on yours is comforting, as much as it is arousing, and you cling to him, both arms around his neck as his slippery fingers test your entrance, gently. 

“What if I didn’t,” Saladin muses, broad fingertips stroking against you, around you, pressing but never dipping into your body even as you wriggle. “And simply kept you like this.”

His physical size means he could. He’s big enough to pin you down and not fuck you, tease you until you beg for it.

You drag your lips against the shell of his ear, clinging as close to him as you can. It’s alright if you beg in a whisper, where only he can hear it. “Please… I need your fingers, if I want to sit on your cock.”

Saladin’s fingertip pushes in finally and you reward him with an arch of your back and a wanton noise, muscles flexing around him in encouragement. He barely has to ask for you to respond immediately, chasing the thick curl of him inside you, pressing and reaching new spots. He likes you talking when he adds the next finger, enjoying the way your speech falters or speeds up, even turns to stammering. 

Your body, smaller in every respect, pushes and grinds up against his, flesh sticking where your sweat collects. Saladin knows how to make you cum with his hands-- he could’ve done it with that first finger, but he avoids the pace, the exact spot that would push you over the edge. Your nails dig into his forearm when he finally has three fingers inside you, begging for more in a way he’s not giving you. 

“That enough?” You feel breathless, charged and silly with desire. “Let me. I want--”

“I know what you want,” Saladin interrupts, fingers withdrawing and his body covering yours to feel your full body tremors. 

“Don’t you?” Your chin hooks over his shoulder and you feel a stab of worry, of vulnerability. “I’m not-- I’m not making you?”

You feel the big embrace of his arms, one hand at the nape of your neck, holding you close as he rolls onto his back, dragging you upright along with him. Your face feels small in those same hands when he looks at you, eyes amber. 

“Not if it hurts you. Not if it drives you away.”

“Please!” Maybe tears do prick at your eyes, heart pounding in desperation. “Nothing could do that. And I want you to cum in me.”

Saladin looks caught off-guard, before smiling-- really smiling, in that rueful sort of way you hope always means you’re making him happy, if not exasperated. “What a heartfelt confession.”

“I mean it…”

“I know you do.”

He doesn’t explain more than that, helping you further down his lap, stiffening when you sit with his cock underneath you, pressed flat against his stomach. Looking at the size of the head between your legs, for a moment you feel a touch of apprehension, but shifting your weight up and along his length brings a low noise out of Saladin that’s worth more than anything. 

You slick him up with the oil, warmed in your hands, and eventually poise yourself above him, Saladin keeping a hand at the base of his cock so both your hands can be free. 

Spirit recovered, you flash him a grin. “I want to watch it go in, but I can’t stop looking at you.”

“Focus on yourself,” Saladin says, voice cinched to almost a growl with the head of his cock grazing your hole, one of the few places left he hasn’t felt. 

Whatever that means. You line him up and let gravity press you down, your body tensing and struggling to relax, even as you take a deep breath. Saladin’s other hand goes to your hip, thigh, searching for somewhere to hold you to help distribute the weight, and you cry out when the head of his cock finally pops into you. 

“It’s good,” you say, half to him, half to yourself. Reaching almost blindly, his hand finds yours and you press it flat against your lower stomach, concentrating on breathing. “Stay here. I want. I want you to feel it.”

Saladin groans at the thought, goes breathless and quiet at the reality of it. You take him slowly, stretched to your limit, only making it about halfway before a good nerve fires too strongly and you cum, twitching around him and struggling not to bounce on him to chase it further. You’d wanted to go longer, but if this was it-- “Cum in me! Please!”

“Not yet.” Saladin grits his jaw, a muscle in his cheek working. “You said… to the hilt.”

That he’s holding you to your word is almost enough to make you cum again, that he’s accepted your determination and wants to hold you to it, wants that as much as you do. Every muscle taut, you let yourself slide farther, agonizingly slow. 

Time seems to stop for however long it takes, the steady pressure inside you, filling you up so deeply and thoroughly, the only thing left. When you finally touch his lap, Saladin shakes briefly so as not to risk bucking up into you, your eyes finally open and you look down. 

Saladin’s fingers curve admiringly across the noticeable bulge his cock creates in your body, even pressing a little and making you cry out sharply at the sensation. Not in pain, but...

“I did it,” you pant, his other hand stroking your hair, your face. “I told you.”

“Beautiful.”

Saladin says it quietly, and you disguise what might be the beginning of tears with another cry as he moves, just enough. Your body has nowhere to go but simply to flex helplessly around him, and the subtle roll of his hips is enough to send you flying off the edge, cumming. 

Your fingers dig into his broad chest and you beg Saladin to move, even though when he does you feel afraid you might never stop, that you might never want anything else in life but to stay here, impaled on him. 

He catches your eye when you can finally bear to look down at him, deliberately bucks his hips only a few times, hands anchored at your waist and you feel like a toy or a doll, unable to move for his sheer size. The thought of that tenses you again and you arch back, weakly trying to move your hips when Saladin comes inside you. Not normally something you can feel, but his passion and relief are so real you can almost feel the imagined heat, the way he slicks you further from the inside. 

You can’t immediately just slide off him, and instead sit, arms braced against his chest, waiting for the most overwhelming pleasure to subside. The longer you stay there, breathing hard alongside him, the more you think about just staying here. Letting him soften and then harden again, already inside you. 

“You have a look in your eye,” Saladin warns, smoothing a big thumb over the swell of your cheek, other hand running slowly up and down your body. 

“Hm?” You’re tired, but not enough to keep from teasing him. Your inner muscles still have enough left to flex, and Saladin makes a noise deep in his throat. “Me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest size difference is my power level vs everyone on the other IB team. Yikes...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm notorious for starting projects and not finishing, so we're just going to stay hydrated and have fun this year. If there's a pairing or a concept you're not finding anywhere else and you'd like me to tackle, pitch it my way and we'll see what happens. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
